spot them, when they drop, those antlers 

 are mine. 



" Well, he dropped them both together, 

 in the spring, on the hill where you found 

 them, and I cached them, in case some 

 dude from the East should want to shoot 

 an elk, with a record breaking pair of 

 horns." 



Let me revert to the student group, in 

 the garden. 



One asked, " What is the greatest thing 

 in a picture? " 



Another replied, " Drawing." 



A third, " Expression." 



A fourth, " The artist." 



A fifth, " Sentiment," and explained sen- 

 timent as " the thing in the picture that 

 impressed the beholder, as the original did 

 the artist." 



Now, with this truth in mind, I fearlessly 

 reproduce a sketch, made by a member of 

 the other circle mentioned, to illustrate the 

 fight between 3 pairs of bull elk, and I do 

 not hesitate to claim that it will be found 

 possessed of more real sentiment, and illus- 

 trative power, than a dozen kodak shots 

 could possibly offer. 



AMONG THE REEDS. 



WILMOT TOWNSEND. 



A keen wind is rustling the reeds about 

 me. I can almost imagine I hear them 

 whispering together in a dry, husky voice, 

 as they tremble to the intermittent gusts 

 that swirl about the marsh, in the gray of 

 this November dawn. 



It is cosey here in the punt as I lie at 

 length looking up at the stars, that tell in 

 crisp sparkles of the coming of an ideal 

 day. 



Insensibly they grow wan and pale; a 

 tinge of color creeps along the horizon, 

 a short half hour, and morning has come 

 to the world again. 



High in air a bunch of black ducks 

 drift before the wind, their breasts all 

 ruddy with the sunrise. I know by their 

 flight they will drop in the marsh; for 

 while I watch them they string out at in- 

 tervals in a broken line, only to close up 

 into a compact flock a moment later. 



Now they vanish beyond the reed tops 

 in an undulating line like a wisp of wind 

 driven leaves. No decoys are needed here. 

 I am located at the entrance of the marsh, 

 a favorite spot for morning shooting, the 

 fowl always taking this route when high 



winds are abroad on the lake. Just inside 

 the last bend of the creek, where it turns 

 to the open water, I sit in my punt, ready 

 for developments. 



A few hundred yards in front and be- 

 yond me the woods run down to the marsh, 

 and although keyed up to high tension as 

 I keep my eyes playing right and left in the 

 direction of the bend, I cannot help feel- 

 ing the beauty of my surroundings. 



The wind has fallen with the rising sun, 

 and as he mounts to higher levels behind 

 me his glancing rays touch the woods. 

 Like magic they kindle and glow with 

 wondrous autumn colors. 



Hark! Mam-ph! There is a mallard 

 somewhere about. 



Mam-phi Mam-ph! how distinctly I 

 hear him in the stillness that holds the 

 marsh. 



There he comes swimming round the 

 bend! 



I'm bound to give him a chance, and will 

 not pot him. Let him swim up, then I'll 

 flush him, and take him as he rises. 



Ah — he hesitates and silently sheers off 

 toward the other side of the creek, then 



"9 



